#i'm actually feeling really good about it

[madamechrissy]

Blueberry Yum Yum - oneshot preview/taglisttt

Pairings - Fratboy Plug Sukuna x Nerdy stoner reader

This will be a cute ass lil smut oneshot where you fuck your plug and he gets down bad from your coochie aha, reader is a freak, Sukuna will whimper. will be smutty and explicit, preview here is just mentions of sex and weed smoking, college AU

Comment to get tagged babesss you know the drill, will be out next week 🫶🫶🫶 preview below!

"What if we like... had sex?" Sukuna starts coughing up the thick smoke of his purple haze, wondering if it's fucking laced with something as you sit there, blunt in your hand and your legs crossed, casually smoking it as if you brought up the fucking weather.

"The fuck did you say!?" He demands after he catches his breath, you inhale your blunt now, you're by far his nerdiest client, you shocked him when you asked to buy from him the first time.

You scream good girl, certified Velma from Scooby-Doo - annoying 'actually - jinkies' nerd. The two of you even hanging out was a fucking anomaly, a mathlete and a frat boy, one he didn't try to figure out. He enjoyed selling weed to you and smoking with you, hearing your stupidly intelligent thoughts, he enjoyed looking at you too. Sure you were fucking gorgeous in that soft, sweet way.

So what the fuck was this!?

"It's been a while," you murmur, handing him the blunt back now, he takes a huge rip, coughing again as you speak. "If I'm not really your type it's cool."

"If you're... you... I..."

"Shit, it's fine. Calm down. Just was thinking it'd be fun." He keeps staring at you, mouth wide open, and you sigh, rolling your eyes. "Dude it's fine don't freak out. Forget it."

"Forget it? The fuck?" He's glaring ruby eyes at you, while you take a wad of money our of your little black backpack, decorated with anime pins all over and a ridiculous amount of keychains.

"Here," you hand him the cash, fingers brushing for a moment while he just stares. "Shit, I made it weird."

"Yeah you fucking did. Who just says that?" He glares right at you, thin brows low over his narrowed eyes, those sooty pink lashes too fucking pretty and long, god you're jealous of them!? Are they so pretty because you're baked?

"Sukuna, you've fucked like half the girls I know, I have heard you're pretty good at it." He blinks again at that, a rare blush to his cheeks, not fitting his cocky persona while you put out the blunt, letting it smoke against the tray. "Here's the money. Thanks again."

You turn, and he grips your wrist, pausing you, it feels way too good. Not only has it been way too long, Sukuna was fucking hot, every time he got too close you felt that heat, you literally clenched when he just brushed a big hand across your shoulder to grab something. And your boyfriend broke up with you six months ago, you thought maybe it would be fun to fuck him, Sukuna is sexy as fuck and chill. Now you want to disappear, clearly reading the room wrong as usual.

You suck at that.

"You wanna fuck me? What like... some friends with benefits? Or one time shit?" He stands, hovering so fucking tall, you turn and look at him, blazed whites of his eyes red, you swallow nervously, eyeing the tattoos on his chest in that thin white wifebeater that's just unfair to wear around you while you're ovulating, you can see his nipple piercings through it, and it's doing too much.

"I thought like once, if we liked it sure we could do it more. If we're both single and... get along... plus you're hot."

"Yeah I am." He grins and you roll your eyes.

"You know... never mind."

"Wait brat, shit." You sigh, looking up at him now, as he turns you two him, his cock twitching just looking at your dilated eyes behind thick glasses, your parted lips. His fingers brush against the softness of your sweater, watching your nipples press against the material.

"It's cool if you dont want to. Like I am chill about it promise." He fingers the edge of your sweater, blitzed off his ass wondering if you're some fucking dream for a moment. But he feels the heat of your skin as his fingers slip up your waist.

"Think you can keep up with me, huh brat?" He murmurs then, snarky with his smirk. You step closer, your finger drifting up his hard chest.

"The question is if you can keep up with me, Sukuna."

Taglist open!! my pairings are as ridiculous as ever lol

Perm tagss @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[halogenwarrior]

Really I find the only way I have a chance to get hyperfixated on something is if I approach it from a lens of "I'm not expecting this to be the thing I am obsessed over or the characters to be the blorbo of all time I'm just hoping that it's an experience I somewhat enjoy and characters I somewhat like and then it's worth my time. Trying to force that feeling or obsessing over wanting it again is a way to not get it. Though I'm not sure I have ever had the experience of being hyper fixated on a media where I wasn't already feeling that way before the media was over, the closest I've gotten is retroactively liking a certain character from something I already liked more/putting them higher on my favorites list months in hindsight, or slowly realizing how obsessed I am with something mid media experience even though I started out thinking it's just "pretty good".

I sometimes have had the direct opposite experience where I get intensely interested in some media just from hearing about it second hand/reading discussion or summaries of it and then actually seeing the thing makes me pay more attention to the characters and points in it that I was already interested in which leads to greater investment from the very beginning which can turn into a hyper fixation. (Or it can go the other way around where I'm very disappointed in the actual media compared to the hype I got around it second hand). I guess this is what people mean when they say spoilers can improve the media, which is that the previous knowledge makes you already invested and looking out for some things even in the early bits when normally you wouldn't be attached. Though for me it's unpredictable whether a given spoiler/previous knowledge will do this, the key is a blend of knowing enough to intrigue you and there being a lot you don't know that can surprise you/be new/especially memorably subvert the expectations you had from secondhand knowledge.

The funniest hyperfixations have gotta be the ones where you watch something and go "this thing is cute. I like it. not sure if Id call it a favorite of mine but its definitely enjoyable at least" and then cut to a month later and its completely overtaken your life

[the-stars-and-the-tide]

8 comics that have inspired me!!

In honor of actually starting this blog I've drawn 8 characters from clangen or cat comics that inspired me to make my own!! Go check them out if you haven't already!!

the blogs are below the cut because i yap a lot about each lol

Eklunta - @loudclan-clangen - I think Eklunta is an interesting lady even though she's been dead for a while now. I like how she appeared in Siltsplash's mind after the kits were born. I really like how cats are drawn in this comic. They are so round and lovely and there is always so much drama

Wiggity Wacks - @fallenclan - I think it's really impressive how Fallenclan has so many characters yet all of them feel distinct in their own way. There's a reason they would be someone's favorite. I also really like the artstyle of this one!! I drew Wiggity Wacks because that is the silliest name I've ever heard and I also hope he keeps getting into situations. Stay silly Wiggity Wacks <3

Heartflicker - @vespidclan - I think the story of this comic is super interesting and I love how 404 works. She is a silly moth who can do no wrong !! I decided to draw Heartflicker because she is my fav so far. Sure do hope nothing bad happens to her!! (i say in fear)

Snompelt - @splinterclan - I'm really intrigued by the lore and drama of this comic. I also really love the designs of the cats so it was hard to chose who to draw. I'm really excited to see where this one goes!! I drew Snompelt because he's just a silly little guy :3

Suncat - @jumalanpelko - Read through all of this comic in one afternoon, and I haven't been the same since. The colors, shapes, and story are soooo good. Also wdym Suneve is upon us I talked to Her and She said Suncat was going to live a long and healthy life /coping

Rainhaze - @barrenclan - The first Barrenclan video was one of the things that inspired me to make the first version of this comic, back when the story came from clan generator and not clangen. I had a lot of fun following this comic until it ended. I drew Rainhaze because I like cats who do bad things but have their reasons

Condor - @wavesalwayscrash - The art of this comic was a huge inspiration for me, specifically how the backgrounds are drawn. The shading and the colors never fail to amaze me. I drew Condor because I also like cats who just do bad things :3

Candykit - @circus-clangen - I was originally going to draw Ringstar but momma raised a quitter so I drew Candykit instead. Her design is so cute! I really love the way the characters are designed and drawn for this comic. The mystery is really intriguing too I wish I was smart enough to try and solve some of the puzzles lmao

[hajihiko]

Aren't you tired of being nice, don't you just wanna go apeshit: a ramble about the despair gimmick

In short- in my mind & my world, despair is basically just giving up on your/society's principles and deliberately becoming the worst version of yourself. It's kind of a rejection of society and expectations to a catastrophic degree- I am tired of being nice and I am going to go apeshit (I'm sick of trying to keep everything together, I'm doing a 180 and burning it all to the ground). Who hasn't fantasized a little bit about giving up the long fight for good and doing all the things you know are bad?

In long:

I do think the whole despair and hope, specifically, are moreso gimmicks to have easily recognisable and iconic words in your game rather than something you can actually summarise. I mean, the concepts are real, and the feelings are as real as any feeling is. But the spiral-eyes and super-saiyan mode are obviously moreso to make it dynamic and On Brand, and it's simply more fun that way. As a visual artist this is great for me!

But like, the actual despair thing to me is a more familiar feeling that a lot of people might recognize; a kind of sickness, not illness, but being sick of the world you were born into. Especially these gifted kids with their whole future already defined, whether they like it or not. If your world is rigid and unyielding, you might be sorely tempted to take a sledgehammer and just wreck it.

Akane example: her life was really rough, and her only way out was sports and the privileges being good at them brings. If she doesn't keep up, she just might end back in poverty, and at least in gymnastics there are less people abusing her. But she still needs to practice, mind her diet, wear the right clothes, socialize, compete, go to school, worry about her family back home, etc. Eventually she throws it all away, says FUCK IT and lets herself do whatever she wants, even ruins her body so there is a very slim chance she can even make a comeback- no expectations, nothing to live up to. Then, she can finally stop trying so hard to be good. It's easier to lay down and deteriorate, and after so long pushing yourself to make it, there's probably a kind of delerious joy to finally just. Give up, and stop trying. Absolving yourself of all responsibility for your life and others', whatever happens from here on out just doesn't matter.

Imagine your life is a castle of blocks (you know, the kind kids play with).

When you're little, everything is impressive. You made one block stand up, wow! Good job! Keep going, here's a block coloured improvement, here's one coloured discipline.

You should have a block coloured father figure, but instead you're handed violence. That one is misshapen and ugly and makes your whole construct unstable and much more difficult to work with in the future, but you're too young to know the difference. Once you're old enough to know, it's too late- you already built so much on that foundation.

As you go on, and make a bigger castle, not only does the building get harder, but people expect more, and it gets more and more imperative that you keep going and do not fuck up. Especially when you're a gifted kid that's supposed to be the very best at that one thing you do - it's exhausting!! Every time the castle so much as rattles, you're terrified it's all gonna come down, and you just start hating this stupid castle.

Then someone shows up and says, hey. You can just knock this whole thing down, yknow? If you do, people will stop hounding you about it, and if you do it with a big tantrum and a bang, they won't even expect you to try again. You can just rest.

And god, doesn't that sound good.

She hands you a baseball bat and you delightfully start smashing your castle to bits, and get splinters and blisters and tire yourself out with it. Once you're done, maybe you even start smashing other people's blocks. Maybe you even think you're helping them. It's just stupid blocks and you're so over treating them seriously.

(It so happens that she is making her own empire out of the wood chips of your life, but you don't see that. Or you don't care, or you're just happy to give something back to her.)

But of course it's not actually a castle of blocks. It's your life, and you don't get to switch out broken blocks for new ones and you can't un-smash them.

Kind of like waking up from a bender, a fun wild crazy time while it lasted, but now you feel sick and gross and hurt and you'd like to go back to the comforts you had, but... too late.

You get put into a rehab coma. Everything is a mess, everything hurts, and you don't really want to live in a pile of wood chips after all. You don't need to make a castle, you can make whatever you want, actually. But it's gonna be pretty hard.

A guy hands you band-aids and some glue and says, better get to work.

And you get to work.

[revelboo]

For your fated mate series, I'm really intrigued to see how it would go for Optimus to find his mate on his next outing after witnessing B's try to escape. Maybe his human would have some angst about finding that sense of belonging in someone they'd have to give up their old life for, or maybe they'd be so damned jazzed to finally feel like everything is falling right into place because they've never felt like they belonged anywhere. (Maybe they're already into the idea of fucking an alien robot and they hit on him first, who knows?(wait that kinda happened with your idw OP, now that I think about it...))

At any rate, keep up the great work, stay rested and hydrated, and have a beautiful day.

Poor guy realizes how unhappy Bee’s human is, so he’d be horrified to end up drawn to his own human. Knows he should interfere with Bee, but also really wants it to work out and for his friend to be happy, so he’s turning a blind optic to what’s going on

Don’t Give Up On Me

TFO Optimus x Reader

• Venting as he watches Bee carry his human back to his habsuite while fussing over them, Optimus’s servos flex. Knowing he should say something. Put a stop to this obsession the other bot has, but at the same time, he remembers when he first met Bee. Abandoned and thrown away, isolated from everyone. And he thinks about how lonely that must have been. That he doesn’t want Bee to ever be alone like that again. So he stays silent with his guilt for letting this happen.

• Can feel the optics of the other Autobots that had witnessed everything on him and they turn away when he looks their way. Pretending they didn’t see anything. And it’s too much suddenly. “Going on patrol,” he growls stalking past them. Out of the suddenly claustrophobic Ark and he transforms, falling forward into his new vehicle mode taken from this world. Just needs some space.

• And there it is. No amount of pleading is coaxing your old sedan another mile or so as the engine sputters. You’d been coasting on fumes and prayers for miles, hoping there’d be a gas station around the next bend in the road. Rolling onto the side of the lonely stretch of road to come to a slow stop, your head thumps against the steering wheel. You’re not even really sure where you are, your phone had died miles ago. This was supposed to be a fresh start. A second chance. This isn’t how you envisioned it beginning at all.

• Rolling down the highway, he sees the car on the side of the road. Doesn’t even pay it any attention. Until he draws closer and it hits him unexpectedly. Spark aching as he slams on his brakes. Because he thought Bee had exaggerated the feeling. But it’s got him by the throat, longing and a sense of familiarity. Of home that he needs so bad it hurts. And he sees you startle at the screech of his brakes, sticking your head out the window to stare. You’re his. Knows it. Feels it spark deep, like he already knows you. That he’s always known you.

• Staring at the red and blue semi, you inhale. Good Samaritan or axe murderer, place your bets, you think as you cast about for anything even remotely resembling a weapon and come up with nothing. And the truck’s just sitting there in the middle of the road. Like the driver isn’t sure he actually wants to help, cranking your anxiety higher. Staring as the semi shudders right before the thing comes apart, your mouth falling open as it stands up. And stares down at you with strange blue optics that somehow feel so familiar.

• You’re right there. So small and precious, something he needs more than energon, more than life. Loving you the moment he be meets your eyes. Can you feel it, too? Do you know him? Have you been waiting your whole life for him like he’s waited for you? He smiles down at you, crouching and reaching. Right as you’re throwing open a door and running away from him. There’s no conscious decision, he’s moving to catch you out of reflex. Because he has to. Can’t let you get away now that he’s found you even as he’s horrified by the visceral need to catch you, hold you. Keep you.

I wanted to go to the kickoff party tonight, but whatever I did has me FUBARed pretty good lol. Can’t stop sweating and walking feels like I’m on a trampoline.

[nejiverse]

‘FLYING OBJECTS’ AND THEIR BIG MOUTHS..

Kinich, Ifa

In which Ajaw and Cacucu reveal all their partners’ hidden feelings. Fem! Reader

cw: kissing, hope they arent ooc🥹

1104 words

Y/n was walking a good few steps ahead of Kinich and Ajaw, humming a tune Kinich couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he would soon find out that was the least of his worries.

Ajaw, who was always looking for something to pester Kinich about, noticed how the male threw multiple side glances at Y/n's retreating figure.

At this, a sly grin spread across his face.

"Oho what's this?", Ajaw echoed suddenly, loud enough to make a few qucusauri frantically scatter.

"Is our proud warrior tripping over his own feet just watching her walk?!".

Kinich rolled his eyes and swatted ajaw away but to no surprise he came right back.

What he said wasnt completely off the mark, but it wasnt just her walk. It was her posture, the way she carried herself, and most especially the way she would quickly glance back to make sure they werent too far behind, accompanied with that small smile that if interpreted into words would say 'im glad youre still there'.

Kinich would find himself counting down the minutes until she would give him another quick glance.

"I'm not, now stop annoying me", he scoffed.

"You so are! I'm telling Y/n~", he sang as he made his way to her side before Kinich could even attempt to grab him.

Kinich swore to himself that after today, Ajaw would never see the light of day again as he hurried to catch up to the two, now only a few steps behind the girl.

"I will end you", he mouthed as to not attract Y/n's attention but Ajaw was unfazed.

Being by Y/n's side gave Ajaw confidence to say whatever he wanted. After all, Kinich would never do anything rash in front of her.

"Honestly, it's adorable", the dragon lord mocked. "If you write Y/n a poem i'm absolutely reading that out loud!", he snickered.

Y/n laughed at Ajaw's antics. "A poem you say?", Y/n turned around now walking backwards. "If you write me one I expect a dramatic delivery! Bonus points if you pathetically cry halfway through", she teased.

Kinich folded his arms. "If I were to write a poem it’d be about someone who steals my food and calls it bonding".

He didnt miss a step, but inwardly he was pleading ajaw wouldnt take it further than he already had.

"See? he hates me!", Y/n frowned. “And it’s not stealing...its tactical aquiring..".

"Actually, lover boy over here has a huuuuge crush on you!".

"Quit it ajaw—", after he saw Kinich's hand coming out to grab him, he swiftly manoeuvred to Y/n's other shoulder.

"Like a trip-over-your-own-feet, cant-look-her-in-the-eye, i-hope-she-doesnt-think-im-being-too-cold kind of crush!".

Y/n stopped in her tracks and closed what little distance was between them, her eyes meeting his own. "Really?".

Kinich was quick to avert his gaze.

"You know how Ajaw can be—"

He was cut off when her hand combed back the hair at his ears, a red tint now coating them.

They two had known each other for a long time, she knew all his tells.

He grunted in embarrassment, eyebrow twitching involuntarily.

Y/n placed her hands at either side of his face ultimately forcing them to make eye contact.

"Is it true Kinich? Your answer will determine what I do next".

What should he do? Just say no and play it off as ajaw being a nuisance? Or maybe not answer at all? Or—

"..yes", he said at last, gritted and honest. "It’s true".

And without another word, she placed a kiss on his lips.

Ajaw huffed. "Bleh. so much for light teasing and tragic denial".

Y/n was helping out Ifa with the saurians when Cacucu blurted. "Yo, bro Ifa has a crush".

Ifa nearly choked on air, internally cursing Citlali.

It was only yesterday, after Citlali had figured him out that he went home muttering to himself and had no idea Cacucu could hear him. "I have a crush on Y/n? How could she even know that?”.

He noted to himself to keep his schizophrenia in his head.

Ifa ran a hand through his hair. "That was supposed to stay between me and the cold side of the clinic tent Cacucu..". And also Citlali but that part was against his will.

Y/n perked up like a tepetlisaurus. "Wait—hold on. Hold on. You have a crush? On who? I wanna know!".

Ifa pointed a finger at Cacucu. "Just so you know, you’re banned from talking until moulting season".

"Ifa has a crush on Y/n!". Why cacucu kept going was beyond Ifa, he felt simply betrayed.

"Cool, love that for me", he muttered with a dry voice.

"Wait..me?", she pointed at herself in disbelief.

Ifa had a lopsided grin. "Yeah its you. Obviously. I mean, you’re out here tending to saurians with me, laughing at my awful jokes, making the hatchlings fall asleep with your voice, and im just supposed to not feel something?".

The pair's conversation was cut short when Ororon bursted into the clinic blabbering about how he messed up and how Citlali was gonna kill him.

So a short while later when the noise had settled down and Ifa and Y/n had finished up for the day, the two sat down against a tree, the last stretch of Natlan’s sunlight making its final appearance.

"Sorry about earlier", Ifa rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm just so used to fixing things, not feeling them", he admitted.

Y/n gave him a reassuring smile. "Well you're doing okay so far", she nodded. "And besides, it adds to your boyish charm", she teased.

Ifa chuckled softly. "Yeah?".

"Yeah".

There's a pause — soft, steady. The kind of silence that feels like it's holding its breath.

Ifa studied her face like he's still not sure he's allowed to want this. His fingers brushed up along her wrist, feather-light, as he leaned in just a little closer.

"...Can I?", he said with a low voice, almost unsure.

He raised up his hand, careful, fingers curling just under her chin to tilt her face up. His gaze flickered between her eyes and her lips.

"You're really asking? After all that?".

She laughed softly, and the sound is so gentle it tugs something loose in his chest. Her hand moved to cover his, holding it in place under her chin. "You better."

And that's all he needs.

If only she knew how long he had been waiting to do that.

masterlist :)

[moonstruckme]

i mean if you INSISTTTTT….can we see intern reader trying to be flirty back with spence. or like them hanging out/doing something together maybe outside of work, the rest of the team can be there or not idk i just love them and your writing so much hehehe

Thanks for your request angel <3

cw: football concussion statistics? idk not trying to piss off any diehard nfl fans. oh also american football being referred to simply as football because I'm also not trying to piss off the rest of the world, and lastly some borderline HR violations

Spencer Reid x intern!reader ♡ 1k words

“Alright, Jack!” Prentiss claps, before sticking her fingers into her mouth and letting loose a piercing whistle that makes both you and Garcia flinch in surprise. 

“Way to make the extra pass, kid!” Morgan shouts across the field. 

On the other side of the grass, Hotch nods like he seconds this, though his expression stays focussed and his eyes on his players. 

“He’s getting really good,” JJ says. 

Next to you, Garcia grimaces. “I wish he’d be good at something else.” 

“Beautiful,” Morgan chides, “don’t crush the kid’s dreams.” 

“He’s just a sweet summer child! There are, like, a crazy amount of concussions in football. I’m just looking out for him.” 

“In recent years, the NFL has reported a significant decline in concussions in professional football players,” says Spencer. 

Morgan makes a smug noise. “See? He’ll be alright.”

“But,” you raise your voice hesitantly, “wouldn’t the NFL have a bit of incentive to report that?” 

You’re looking at Spencer out of the corner of your eye. He meets your gaze, lips quirking. 

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s what I think, too. Independent studies have been less favorable.” 

Garcia mimics Morgan’s smug noise, victorious. Before she remembers to be worried and frowns again. 

Morgan laughs. “Hey, I didn’t sign him up. Jack likes football, you gonna tell him to quit?” 

Garcia comes back at him with some teasing remark, but you’re distracted by Spencer’s eyes still on yours. He’s looking at you like there’s something he can’t quite make sense of, which is happening so often lately it’s almost laughable. You have the most obvious crush in the world, and certifiable genius Spencer Reid can’t figure you out. 

You look away first. 

It’s sort of humiliating, how things have escalated between you in the last week. Every bit of that is your fault. You know it’s not professional, but you’ve spent lots of time thinking about it, and really a bit of flirting isn’t so bad if you know nothing is going to come of it. It’s harmless. Spencer is just so, so nice to you, you can’t help but want to be nice back; walking the line between friendly and something-else sort of comes with the territory. You would never actually endanger your position at the BAU. You only want Spencer to feel as special as he makes you feel. He deserves that. 

First it was bringing him breakfast after he helped you prepare your testimony. You wanted to thank him, so you picked up some breakfast tacos like he said he used to have back home in Las Vegas, and so what if you only know that because you’ve spent so much time chatting together? You’re training to be a profiler, remembering details is part of your job. Then you started complimenting him more, which was really just giving yourself permission to say your quiet thoughts out loud, making genuine observations about his taste in psychologists and the care he shows for witnesses even when the whole team is in a rush. And then maybe you began letting him teach you some things about chess even though you’ve never been interested in the game before, and bumping his knee gently under the table when he’s rambling without realizing everyone else has already moved on, and exchanging little smiles when you both look up from your desks at the same time. So what? None of that is a fireable offence. 

“I’m gonna go get water,” Spencer says, standing and starting to descend the metal bleachers. 

“Can you grab me one?” Prentiss asks. The rest of your team immediately chimes in with their requests, and you take a step down from the bleachers as well. 

“Want help?” you ask. 

Spencer seems to have been picturing the same thing you have: him coming back from the cooler in Garcia’s trunk with arms overflowing with plastic bottles, leaving a trail of them all the way back to the bleachers. He looks relieved. “Please.” 

You hop down, unable to look him in the eye when you take the hand he offers you for the last couple of steps. The sun is out in full force today, glinting off the metal of the bleachers and every car in the parking lot. The pavement radiates heat. 

Spencer hovers a hand above his eyes. “I wasn’t made for this.” 

“It’s a hot one,” you agree. 

“If Jack had a different hobby, we could be inside at a science fair right now. With air conditioning.” 

You chance a look at him. “Isn’t being involved in sports good for kids?” 

Spencer shrugs, though you’re sure he knows the answer. “I turned out okay.” 

Your lips tug. There’s no denying that. 

“Here.” You take off the baseball cap you’d put on for the game, holding it out for him as he pops open Garcia’s trunk. You pray to God the hat isn’t sweaty. 

Spencer only looks at it, surprised. “Oh, I—that’s okay. I’ll be fine.” 

“No, look.” You take a pair of sunglasses out of your bag, putting them on. “See? Now neither of us will have the sun in our eyes.” 

“Really?” Spencer asks, only taking the bill of the cap in hand once you nod. He settles it on his head like it’s his first time wearing one. “Thanks. Do I look stupid?” 

You shake your head, staring. “You look good,” you say. It comes out unchecked, before you can think about it. God, you’re so obvious. It’s true, though. Spencer’s still squinting a little even with the shade over his eyes, but it’s relaxed some; it reminds you of the way he looks when he’s puzzling something out. You’re hopelessly endeared by it. His hair, grown to what Garcia lovingly calls boy band length, wings out of the sides of the cap. Practically begging to be coiled around your index finger. 

“Thanks,” Spencer says again, the faintest tinge of pink—which can probably be attributed to the beginnings of a sunburn—kissing his cheeks. 

Bashfulness softens your voice. “No problem.” 

He opens the cooler, starting to scoop up waters and sports drinks (though one of the team moms is supplying drinks for the kids, Garcia had packed for you all like you’d be on the field too). Condensation drips down Spencer’s wrists. 

“Thanks for helping with this, too,” he says. 

“Pretty sure this is what interns are for,” you joke as you grab some too. 

“Always undermining yourself,” Spencer chides, something almost like teasing in his voice. It makes your stomach crowd with butterflies. “You know you’re more than that to us.”

[aro-culture-is]

Aro culture is seeing the signs that your friend is in a toxic relationship but they refuse to acknowledge it when you tell them and say "we're in love, you wouldn't get it"

hey, something I've noticed is that people... don't know how to bring up signs of toxicity. and the thing is, the major "do not" is to directly call the relationship abusive/toxic, or the other(s) in it such, which is also the thing almost everyone I talk to says they did in your position.

quoting from a New York state gov site about domestic violence:

Here are some examples of how you can Start the Conversation: - “I noticed that sometimes [insert partner’s name] does this [insert concerning tactic that you’ve seen]. Does that happen a lot? How does that make you feel?” - “I’m concerned about your safety. Is it okay if we talk about it?” - “I’m so glad you told me about [insert disclosure of abuse]. How can I help or support you? What do you need?” - “I noticed lately that you’ve been [insert survivor’s behavior like “getting hurt a lot lately” or “not going out as much”]. Is everything okay? If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you.” - “I know this can be really hard to talk about. I promise I believe you and won’t judge any of your choices or experiences. I care about you and just want you to be safe.” - “I recently read/watched/heard [insert book, article, movie, podcast about domestic violence]. Have you read/seen/heard it? What do you think?”

These are all adaptable to toxic relationships, high control groups like cults, and generally, someone experiencing distress. For example,

"I've noticed that sometimes [person/group/work] does [concerning tactic, addressed as factually as possible. ie, talking over you, making jokes you don't seem to enjoy, grabbing you, etc, NOT 'being a bitch']. Does that happen a lot? How do you feel about it?

Then, DO NOT say how you feel about it without letting them speak! Don't launch into "I saw them do it 8 times today, and I think you're ignoring it because you think you love them, and that's bad!" Let them tell you what they notice, do not blame them for staying, and do not call the situation bad until they do!

If they say, "oh, I don't think it's that bad/that frequent.", you don't have to agree, but you could say, "I thought it happened a few times today, but if you aren't worried, I'll try not to push. Just know you can always talk to me if it does change."

If you DO push too far, and that happens, be careful. The main problems from that are 1) they feel like you're judging them, so they stop engaging with you. 2) they tell the abusive group, who WILL try to stop them from contact with you, 3) this actually pushes them FURTHER into the toxic situation, because now someone who cares is inaccessible. Dial it back.

"I'm sorry I came across so strong. I shouldn't have been so accusatory, I was worried and got carried away. You can always talk to me if things change, but I shouldn't have gone about it like that even if it were that bad."

Good luck.

[thatmahblog]

You don't even need to be grieving, at any given time it is a bad thing to push your religious belief unto others. It's annoying at best and hurtful at worst. No one has to agree with you or even listen, actually, consent applies to conversation topics. It's not a personal attack if someone refuses to have a specific conversation with you, but you forcing it on them is a form of assault actually. People can say no and people can say stop and you have no right to blame them for it.

You know what? It's always good to remind people what consent really means and spread this around so, there.

The way this applies to conversations :

Freely Given : you don't feel forced to listen, you're not afraid of confrontation, you feel free to refuse to have this conversation.

Reversible : "can we talk about something else?" When you're done, when you've had enough and you no longer want to have this conversation, it must be respected. Stop is just as important as No.

Informed : Is someone using your ignorance against you? Is this conversation a trap? Is information being kept from you to manipulate you into saying or agreeing with something?

Enthusiastic : Read the room. There are many reasons someone might not outright say no or use explicit vocabulary (fear, insecurity, aprehension). If you care you should watch out for discomfort.

Specific : "I was okay talking about death, but not religion", or "I'm normally okay to talk about religion, but not right now". Maybe there's a certain aspect of a topic you'd rather avoid. It's specific, nothing is implied.

TL;DR : Consent is respecting "No" and "Stop", in words or in body language, with no abuse of ignorance, no threat, no "buts", and it applies to everything.

If you care, you shouldn't have to worry about breaking consent on accident. FRIES is mostly a tool of self-defense against denial of accountability and victim blaming.

it's been a year so i feel more comfortable talking about it..

when you're atheist and you lose someone, religious people don't really know how to interact with you. it's fine, we have different worldviews.

'He's in a better place, now.'

Sorry auntie, but I don't believe that. I believe that his brain stopped working at 5h55pm on december 11th 2022, and that's it. Nothing after that.

It makes grief very difficult, because not believing in god or the afterlife also means accepting that you will never, ever see that person again. That's it. The end. Nada mas.

But, back to the aunties and other faceless people gravitating in the grey blurry waters of your awareness.

They tell you 'He's with god now' and you tell them 'Yeah I don't believe that' and.

they. get. annoyed.

Here I am, gutted open, the worst day of my life, barely holding myself together, and they! Get annoyed that I won't smile and entertain their point of view!

Another faceless person tried to heal me with cristals. She also got annoyed when I told her I didn't believe in that.

I usually don't really mind religious people. It's fine, we have different worldviews. I think I'm right but so do they. As long as they're good people, I don't judge them for their faith.

I'll even be grateful for them trying to console me. I get that you're trying to give me strength and love. Thank you.

But I'm going to be true to myself, yes even when I'm mad with shock and grief. And I still can't believe they got annoyed that I didn't play along to placate them, on the worst day of my life.

(I wanted to share because I've never heard anyone talk about atheism and grief, and the loneliness that comes out of it.)

[markrosewater]

As a UB in standard disliker and a person with a dislike for "fortnitification" in general and strong dislike for many of hasbros decisions, I do have to give props to the actual card designers. While I only really play Premodern at the moment, I have been paying attention to spoilers for the first time in years to see what you were going to be doing for the Final Fantasy set, and I've been very impressed. I greatly respect the flavor of the cards capturing characters and events so well, the amano and nomura art treatments, and the sort of "form and function" of various aspects of the set. Huge fan of the transforming cards and the Summons being Saga Creatures. While it's not a part of the game I wish to interact with as a consumer, I do believe what I have seen so far to be a great work of game design. I'm not versed in every FF game, but the ones I do know I feel you have absolutely hit the mark in at least 90% of the cards designs, and im not seeing anything i find to be silly (in the "Captian America is RUW because America" way, whether of not and regsrdless of if that is technically the correct colors for the mechanics). While I remain against a lot of the UB "other IP" in principle, the FF set we have seen so far is about as good as you can get for "outside concepts adapted into the MTG system and I want to pass along all the high fives the team. I may still be "a hater" on a fundamental level but I have nothing but respect for the expertise on display for this set. Very happy for the people who are excited, I'm sure this set is going to be exactly what a ton of people want.

Thank you.

I will stress again that Captain America’s top three colors are white, blue, and red.

[patricia-taxxon]

With all due respect, you are very tactless when you phrase certain things and when people, politely even, tell you that it was thoughtless or mayhaps even racist, as has been the time before, you flip and go in defensive mode and finding different excuses instead of internaly trying to parse why exactly is it that people, black people in particular, have told you that what you said was racist. That is not a good look no matter how you twist it into victimhood, SPECIALLY when people are actually being very polite in informing you about it instead of assuming the worst. Introspection is important there. Like with the latest posts you made, it's not up to autistic black people to "realize" they are autistics, that's systems that have put them in that position and the framing on them as the group that is missing something rather than a group that is being DEPRIVED of something feels at odds with what you supposdely where trying to say, specially as a white person. If you were talking about it you simply would've talked about the systems and their effect on that community instead of whatever is it that you hoped to convey with that post. It really has a stench of white savior to as if autistic black people hadn't formed interiority about their own reality and I hope you realize that and hear friends telling you that instead of assuming everyone out there is just "not understanding you" or even missconstructing it on purpose.

Thank you, I don't think I'm flipping out, I feel like I explained myself & I'm leaving it at that instead of hiding it or doing a performative apology for approval. I'm not going to tokenize anyone to defend myself, as i feel is being suggested by the last paragraph. i will continue to be tactless as long as the people i care about are able to know what i mean, because i used to deal with disagreements online by fawning at strangers & endlessly explaining and clarifying in a way that helps no one & i'm trying to change that.

[sailor-cerise]

I got pretty lucky to have her as my mom ❤️

The first conversation she shared that happened because I was talking about explaining trans-ness to a "confused but got the spirit" friend, when I was in college

Me: so I mentioned how I have a really strong sense of my gender, as a cis woman, as an example of how gender identity isn't unique to trans folks. Do you know what I mean about strongly identifying as a woman, mama? I know not all women do

Her: actually, no -- the opposite. For four solid years in my early 20s I was pretty sure I was a man, or at least not a woman. I still feel like that sometimes, but I also more strongly identify as a mother, and it's less important to me right now because I'm not in a relationship or looking for one. To be honest, if I were healthy I'd probably explore it more, but I'm content as-is. I know I'm me.

And in a later conversation, talking about her bisexuality: I definitely have a type for women, but it's not about body type or anything -- it's when she's got that strong feminine energy in a way that makes me feel like a man, in a good way.

she was always age-appropriately frank about things related to sex and relationships, and I also really learned from her how to separate discussion of sex and sexuality from being sexual. Like the difference between saying "I have food poisoning, ugh" and a graphic description of your unpleasant morning.

You don't ask about your daughter's sex life, but you can talk about enthusiastic consent, and about how sex and love CAN go together but don't HAVE to, and that what matters is being safe, respecting each other, honesty, and enjoying yourself.

MULTIGENDER LORDE MOMENT???!!!!

[doruwuwei]

I'm done watching the first two Murderbot (!show) episodes (twice) and here are a few things we got that I loved and some that I didn't love so much. All in good spirits! I was very excited and still am!

(⚠️ SPOILERS AHEAD!!! ⚠️)

- Pin Lee's "For fuck's sake, Ratthi".

- Mensah being level-headed and amazing.

- Ratthi. Just Ratthi being Ratthi.

- Gu Gu???? Omg

- the fact that they managed to keep it mysterious and interesting and exciting even for readers of the books.

- The depiction of the alien remnants.

- The reason why the line SecUnit says to arada in the crater sounded so stiff in the trailer being that it lifted it verbatim from an episode of Sanctuary Moon?!

- Gurathin being reluctantly (not reluctantly) loved

- Arada. Delightful Arada.

- The moment when Baradwaj enters the hopper and the whole scene feels like a horror show just for her to be like "OMG hiii".

- Dr. "I guess I'll close the fucking door" Gurathin.

- SecUnit's veiled not so veiled threats to Gurathin when he was being an absolute asshole.

- Gurathin correcting Arada (twice) when she calls Murderbot "he". He may be an asshole, but he will use your correct pronouns. Also maybe objectification. He is an asshole.

- SecUnit saying "Gurathin" with actual visceral rage.

- They painted the habitat AND PUT RUGS ON THE FLOR.

- RATTHI MAKES HIS OWN JEWELLERY

- THE SKY HAS COLOURS

- Arada's little animalist tangent.

- Mensah and Baradwaj bickering about their specialty fields' importance.

- Gurathin being awkward with Mensah.

- SecUnit trying to flee discretely whenever the humans stop looking at or talking to it for 3 seconds.

- SecUnit walking barefoot into the crew area.

- The THEME MUSIC FOR SANCTUARY MOON GAVE ME GOOSEBUMPS.

- Us seing Mensah's children and them being all so very different hinting at some kind of different family configuration.

- We get to see the emotional toll this is taking on Mensah much more clearly.

- Ratthi is clearly a hugger.

- WORLD HOPPERS??? First hint at ART!! (Not really, I know. But I'm starved).

- FIRST OH SHIT MOMENT

Things I didn't like so much:

- The amount of time SecUnit is forced to be exposed without its armour or even clothes. Felt unfair. Although I suppose it was meant to make us feel uncomfortable. Just as much as it is.

- The cubicle design.

- No abort commands on the rescue(?)

- I don't know why they made SecUnit stay at the habitat for the recognizance trip. I wanted to see it herding the humans away from hazard markers.

- Ratthi flirting (???) with MB(?) Idk I may have misunderstood this one.

- Gurathin forcing MB to make eye contact. That was so cruel. But I guess it's getting more reasons to at some point tell him "I don't like you". And it will be delightful.

In summary: I'm liking it! I think it has a lot of potential and I'm glad this exists so that more people will know of the books. I'm having fun watching it and it won't change the love I have for the novels.

I just love seeing my favourite people in situations. And FULL COLOUR!

Hope you guys have fun watching and feel free to scream at me about it!

[vettelsvee]

DON'T COMPARE YOURSELF TO OTHERS | Carlos Sainz

⋆ PAIRING: Carlos Sainz x Girlfriend!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: Carlos is giving his everything to try being the best after his life changed by entering Williams, even that means his health might be at risk... and even when you try your best to support him every way possible ⋆ WORD COUNT: 929 ⋆ WARNINGS: Mental health issues, a bit angsty ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: Williams!Carlos fic to celebrate I got the Williams Meet & Greet with Carlos and Alex tomorrow and I'm nervous af. Hope you like this one even it's short and remember that if you liked it you can comment and reblog, and even make requests, since I'd appreciate it a lot! Thank you so much for reading! <3 Also we’re close to 2k followers so give me ideas for a fic event pls 🙏🏻 ↳ TALK TO ME/MAKE YOUR REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

Carlos woke up that Wednesday morning around six o'clock, excited to start his training even before having breakfast.

The next Grand Prix, in Imola, was the next one in the 2025 season, his newest one with Williams. After Ferrari decided it was the best to replace him with Lewis, he was lost; however, in the upcoming months after that abrupt decision, and especially after signing with his newest team, he really believed welcoming new beginnings was meant to be.

Now, after a few months into the season, doubt and overthinking were surrounding his head all the time.

The truth was, although he found it hard to admit, the past few days had been tough on him. He didn’t take care of himself like he should. He decided to train excessively, even more than what his coaches and specialists advised him to, leading to his body starting to feel the backlash: the muscle pain he was experiencing was immense, and his body was way more tired than usual.

However, that didn't make him stop. The comparisons on the internet with his newest teammate, Alex Albon, were killing him even he tried to stay as calm as possible. Carlos knew he still had to adapt to the team; that he was, actually, adapting to the team, but some comments from people that didn’t know the truth behind it all were that gross that all the Spanish could think about was not being good enough for Formula 1.

That, maybe, it was his time to say goodbye to the sport that not only gave him life, but also he gave his life for.

When he arrived at the gym, he found you, already training to be able to go to work in the upcoming hours.

"Hey, what's wrong?" 

You quickly approached him as soon as you saw him, gently touching his arm. You didn't like the tension you noticed on Carlos’ face, but at the same time, you didn't want to intrude on his thoughts because you knew how close, shy and, moreover, ashamed, he was with everything involving sharing his deepest worries.

"I'm fine," Carlos replied curtly, although you already know it wasn't true.

You knew something was wrong no matter how much the driver insisted otherwise, so that's why, without thinking about it too much, you took a step forward and decided it was best to address the problem (or at least, try to) once and for all, with your boyfriend:

"Listen, babe…" 

You began speaking softly, while trying to approach him the best way possible so that he didn’t treat you like he was used to every time he couldn’t face his problems in conversations with others.

"I think you're training too much, and it's affecting you, physically and mentally. I hope you realize that what you're doing is not going to help you achieve better results, no matter how much you insist otherwise," you continued. “You’re more than worth, and just keeping yourself busy trying to be the best, when you might not be able to…”

"You don't understand," Carlos interrupted you with frustration. "I need to train harder if I want to win."

You sighed, understanding him but, at the same time, getting more worried at his stubbornness.

"I'm aware of how much you want to do well for Williams, really, but you can't continue punishing yourself like this. You need to take a break and listen to what your body is telling you," you said gently.

Carlos felt a bit resentful, but he knew, deep down, you were more than right. Still, he couldn't help but feel bad about himself once again because, since the beginning of the new season, and even in the past one, he had been compared to his teammates.

He didn’t want to be compared with Charles or Alex. 

He just wanted people to talk about him, for the worse or for the better.

"Maybe you're right," he finally admitted. "But I feel like what I've been doing isn't enough to be on the same line with the rest of the grid."

You approached him and, delicately, placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You can't compare yourself to others, love. You are you, Carlos Sainz, and you have your own strengths and weaknesses. So, please… try your best to just ignore the journalists, okay? You know how they are and how much they like drama…"

Carlos pondered over your words and realized that his girlfriend was right: if he continued punishing his body like that, the consequences would be more severe than they were at that moment. And he didn’t want to miss another race like he did last season when he had appendicitis.

"Thank you for telling me what I don't want to hear," Carlos said, embracing you. "As much as you love me, if you didn't manage to make me see reason, to talk to me... I don't want to know what would have happened to my head more than my body, really. I should take a break, maybe creating a new training routine, but I should discuss it with..."

You smiled, listening carefully to your boyfriend as he talked about his plans to try to silence that impostor syndrome that was eating him alive, even admitting that he might seek even more psychological help than the one he already had to manage himself better.

"I'm here to support you in everything, Carlitos," you finally answer, a huge smile on your face. "You don't have to thank me for caring about you… for making you see how much you’re worth."

[daxisyzz]

Hey there! Love your work and would love to submit a request if that’s alright. I have an idea for a Bucky x reader one shot inspired by his look in Thunderbolts. I love his longer hair coming back, but imagine Bucky having the reader put in hair extensions in his hair so he can have really long hair again instead of waiting for it to grow out? If this idea inspires you to write then I’m so glad but if not don’t feel pressured to write anything. Hope you’re well! :)

heyyy I love this idea!! Sorry for replying late. Here's your little fic. Hope you have a great day<3

Hair Me Out…

Summary: Bucky didn't think he'd miss his long hair — until he sees you casually ordering hair extensions for yourself. Now he needs them too... and you're the poor soul tasked with making it happen. Along the way, he finds a small part of himself that he'd forgotten he still loved.

Word count: 1.1k+

Setting: pre-thunderbolts*, post-tfatws.

Bucky wasn’t even trying to snoop.

Really, he wasn’t.

He was lying across your bed, big and lazy, arms folded behind his head as he listened to you tap away at your laptop, a content little hum coming from your side of the room. Every so often, you’d mutter to yourself or click your tongue in frustration, but otherwise, you were blissfully unaware of his not-so-subtle staring.

“What’re you doing?” he finally asked, lifting his head to look at you.

“Shopping,” you said, clicking a few more times. “Hair stuff. Some skincare junk. You know essentials.”

He hummed, about to close his eyes again, when something bright and silky caught his eye.

You were browsing a site that sold hair extensions — gorgeous, long, flowing locks in every shade imaginable.

Bucky blinked, sitting up a little straighter.

“Wait. Is that for you?” he asked, sounding more interested than he probably should’ve.

You nodded. “Yeah. I wanna try longer hair without committing to, like, years of growing it out.”

He kept staring. At the screen. At you. At the screen again.

Something deep inside him — something he thought he’d buried — stirred.

His own hand went to the ends of his current hair, brushing it lightly. It had been growing out again after a few trims and missions that had demanded ‘uniform standards.’ It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t short.

But it wasn’t his long hair, either.

He missed it.

Missed the way it used to fall in his face, missed the wildness of it, the way it made him feel a little less... polished. Less fake. More himself. More of someone he'd become after losing everything.

“...Can you get me some, too?” he blurted, before he could think better of it.

You paused, hands frozen over your keyboard. “...What?”

He scooted closer, earnestness written all over his stupidly handsome face. “Extensions. Get some for me.”

You turned to stare at him fully, one eyebrow raised. “Bucky. Babe. Love of my life. You are a literal enhanced super soldier and you’re telling me you can’t wait for your hair to grow?”

He pouted actually pouted and tugged lightly at the ends of his hair. “But you’re gonna have long hair and I’m gonna look like a half-baked chia pet.”

You snorted so hard it startled him.

“A chia pet?” you repeated, wheezing.

“A sad one,” he said gravely. “One that needs love.”

You were half-crying, half-laughing now, clutching your stomach. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he said, grabbing your hands in both of his big ones, squeezing them like he was proposing marriage. “Doll. I’ll do anything. Just order some for me, too.”

"You'll do anything?" you teased, still wiping tears from your eyes.

"I'll be your personal assistant for a week. I'll clean the kitchen. I'll even let you pick the next five movies we watch. Even if they suck."

You shook your head, grinning like a fool. "Alright, alright, I'll do it. Only because you look so cute."

Bucky whooped and immediately pulled you into his lap, hugging you tight enough to make you squeak. "You're the best. Seriously. I'm gonna look so good."

"You’re gonna look like a prince," you said dryly.

"Prepare to have Sam roast you into oblivion."

"I don’t even care," Bucky said, burying his face in your shoulder. "I want my hair back."

Few Days Later

Bucky was sitting on the floor in front of you, legs crossed, a towel thrown around his shoulders like a cape. You carefully parted his hair, sectioning it and clipping in the silky extensions you had color-matched for him.

He was so still, so obedient, it made you grin.

"You’re a good client," you teased.

"Yeah, well," he said, glancing at you over his shoulder with a smirk. "I gotta be. My stylist’s got very delicate hands."

You rolled your eyes fondly and snapped another clip into place.

As you worked, you caught him sneaking peeks at himself in the mirror watching the longer pieces blend into his real hair and his smile was so genuine, so open, it almost hurt.

By the time you finished, Bucky looked like he'd stepped straight out of 2014 — but softer, happier.

You admired him from a few steps back, a fond warmth blooming in your chest. "You look perfect, Buck."

He preened a little, flipping a lock of hair over his shoulder. "Damn right."

Just then, the door creaked open.

Sam stuck his head in, mouth already open to say something — and froze.

The look of pure, stunned silence on Sam's face was priceless.

You bit your lip hard to hold back a laugh.

"...No," Sam finally said, deadpan. "No. Absolutely not."

Bucky grinned, pure menace. "Hey, bird boy. You like the new look?"

Sam just shook his head slowly. "You look like a dude who lives in a cave and plays the flute for forest animals."

Bucky tossed his newly long hair dramatically. "Jealousy’s an ugly color on you, Wilson."

"I'm sending this to Torres," Sam said immediately, pulling out his phone.

"Traitor!" Bucky shouted, lunging for him.

You laughed so hard you had to sit down, watching Bucky chase Sam down the hall, towel flying like a cape behind him, hair streaming.

After the chaos died down, you found Bucky sitting in front of the bedroom mirror again, just quietly looking at himself.

Not in the playful way from earlier.

Softer. Sadder.

But not bad.

You walked over slowly and wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder.

He smiled faintly at your reflection.

"You okay, Buck?"

He nodded, his hand coming up to tangle lightly with yours.

"Just... stupid," he said quietly. "Looking at myself like this."

"Not stupid," you murmured.

He shrugged a little. "It reminds me of... when I wasn’t doing so good. Long hair, no plan, no peace. I hated that version of me for a long time."

You pressed a kiss to his temple, squeezing him tighter. "He was doing the best he could. He survived. And he deserved love, too."

Bucky’s shoulders relaxed under your hands, the tension easing out of him slowly.

He met your eyes in the mirror and the look he gave you was pure devotion.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Maybe he did."

You leaned your forehead against his. "Definitely did. Definitely does."

For a moment, you both just stayed there him, you, the soft lamp light, the long, wild hair breathing together, existing without judgment.

And when Bucky finally smiled, really smiled

it was brighter than any version of himself he'd ever worn.

[bleulikedaylight]

Ms. Delinquent, Natasha

pairing: delinquent basketball captain! natasha romanoff x student council president! reader

synopsis: Y/N L/N, perfect student council president, gets paired with the school’s worst nightmare—rebel basketball captain natasha romanoff—for a major project. she’s late, annoying, and impossible to work with. but one unexpected moment makes Y/N wonder… is there more to natasha than the chaos she brings?

warnings: mild cursing + tell me if i missed anything !! | wc: 3.8k | genre: wlw (as always <3), romance, fluff, high school au !! ;p

note: hii !! thank you so much for reading my work. just a quick heads-up—english isn’t my first language, so i’m really sorry in advance for any grammatical errors !! T^T

also, feel free to send messages, asks, requests, or literally whatever—i love hearing from people, and i swear i don’t bite (unless you want me to? jk, i'm so cringe 😔☝️)

anyway, i just noticed i accidentally made a second blog instead of a whole new account… so if you follow me and an account with the username @definitelynotbleu followed you—that's me. that’s my main blog, because apparently, tumblr said “you can’t follow people using your side blog.” like okay. thanks, i guess? ☹️💔💔

i’m lowkey considering just making a whole new account and moving all my fics there because this setup is slowly driving me insane. BUT I’M ALSO KINDA LAZY SO. WE’LL SEE. also i haven’t even made a masterlist yet. i’m cooked. actually beyond cooked. overcooked. burnt. ashes. 🥀🥀🥀

(ALSO I’M SO SORRY FOR VERY LONG AUTHOR NOTES I’M JUST A YAPPER OKAY T^T)

part one ♡‧₊˚ part two ‎♡‧₊˚

The next day, you show up to school with a venti coffee, three hours of sleep, and a list of tasks color-coded in pastel highlighters. You’re not thinking about her. You’re not. You have work to do. You have plans. You are a woman of discipline. You are the student council president.

And then she walks into the classroom like she didn’t just emotionally destabilize you twelve hours ago.

She’s in her varsity jacket, gym bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in. One of them falls out as she moves, and you catch the faint sound of Arctic Monkeys. Of course she listens to Arctic Monkeys. You hate that it suits her.

She sees you. She nods. Calm. Collected. Like last night’s heart-attack-inducing flirtation didn’t happen.

You scowl.

She smirks.

Wanda leans over to whisper, “You’re glaring like she stole your planner.”

“She might as well have,” you mutter.

—

You meet after school again, this time in the student council office. She shows up ten minutes early and eats all the jelly beans in your organizer tray. You tell her off. She just shrugs and asks for more.

Somehow, it becomes a thing.

Every day for a week, Natasha Romanoff shows up. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with new bruises. Once, with a notebook full of genuinely helpful project notes, written in messy, slanted handwriting. She has surprisingly good insights, you have to admit.

But it’s not just the work. It’s the way she listens. The way she leans back in the chair, arms crossed, watching you with something between curiosity and amusement, like you’re a puzzle she’s enjoying solving.

It’s unsettling.

It’s distracting.

It’s maddening.

Especially when she starts casually touching you. Nothing scandalous—just light taps on the shoulder when you make a joke, her knee brushing yours under the table, taking the pen out of your hand when you’re overthinking the sentence structure.

"Relax, President. You’re not writing the Constitution."

You swat her hand. “I am setting a standard.”

She grins. “Yeah. A very adorable, very high-strung one.”

You want to scream.

And then—she starts drawing on your notes.

Like, full-on doodling hearts on the margins when you’re focused on your laptop.

“You’re vandalizing school property,” you say, eyeing the tiny cartoon of a girl with your hairstyle next to one with her haircut.

“Correction,” she replies without looking up. “I’m customizing history.”

You blink. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Depends. Are you flattered?”

You throw a highlighter at her face. She catches it with one hand. You hate how cool that was.

—

It gets worse when she starts appearing outside of project hours. One morning, she joins you in line at the school caf. Orders black coffee and a muffin. Pays for your iced coffee without asking. When you try to protest, she tilts her head.

“What, you don’t like muffins?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

You don’t answer.

Next time you go to your locker, there’s a sticky note on the inside door.

You stare at it for an absurd amount of time.

Wanda finds you still holding it twenty minutes later.

—

And then there’s the basketball practice.

You don’t normally attend. But your vice president is managing the halftime event and drags you into helping.

So you’re there, clipboard in hand, head spinning with logistics—until the buzzer sounds and Natasha Romanoff is suddenly there, sweat-soaked, breathing hard, hair in a messy ponytail, grinning like she just won the world.

She finds you in the crowd. She winks.

You look away so fast you almost pull a muscle.

Wanda catches the whole thing. “Do not make me be the one to say it.”

“Say what?”

“You’re falling for her.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“I can’t stand her.”

“You stood outside for three hours watching her throw a ball into a net.”

“It was for the halftime event.”

“You made the flyer.”

You have no comeback.

—

Then comes Friday.

Project submission day.

You meet in the library to print the final version. Natasha shows up with two drinks—your usual order and something new for you to try. You hate how thoughtful it is.

“So, we’re done,” you say, double-checking the pages.

“We are.”

“No more late-night messages.”

“No more weekly meetings.”

“No more walks home.”

She says nothing.

You look up. Her face is unreadable.

“We’ll go back to being classmates,” you offer, almost as a question.

She nods slowly. “Right. Classmates.”

Why does that feel like a loss?

Before you can say anything else, someone calls her name.

A girl you vaguely recognize—varsity, volleyball, always surrounded by people. She walks over, all smiles and confidence, and hands Natasha a note.

“From me,” she says, touching her arm.

You freeze.

Natasha takes it, unreadable again. “Thanks.”

The girl walks away, not even sparing you a glance.

You stare at the paper. Then at her. You’re not sure what expression you’re making, but Natasha blinks.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, too fast.

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Jealous?”

“What?! No!”

She leans in, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Relax, president. It’s just a love letter. Happens all the time.”

You bite your tongue. You’re not jealous. You’re not.

But you go home annoyed.

And when she doesn’t text you that night, you keep checking your phone anyway.

—

—

The next week is chaos.

Event week. Schedules, permissions, venue requests. You bury yourself in work. You avoid the gym wing. You skip the caf. You go out of your way to not see her.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because Natasha doesn’t chase you. She doesn’t text. Doesn’t show up. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

You don’t want her to. Except you do.

You hate her.

Except you don’t.

And then it’s Thursday.

You’re reviewing final logistics with your committee when the door opens.

Natasha walks in.

Everyone freezes.

You blink. “Can I help you?”

She walks up and hands you a folded paper.

“Coach needed this signed.”

You take it. “Okay.”

She doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Anything else?”

She shrugs. “Just wanted to see you.”

You almost drop the pen.

Wanda chokes on her drink.

Natasha leaves before you can reply.

—

Later, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t.

That night, you can’t sleep.

Because maybe you miss working with her too.

Maybe you were wrong about her. Maybe she’s not a complete walking red flag. Maybe she’s just... complicated. Rough around the edges. Mysterious in a way that makes you want to keep learning more.

Maybe you’re in trouble.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

—

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

Just a message. Just a moment. Just Natasha being… Natasha.

And yet, three days later, you're still re-reading that "i miss working with you" text like it’s a published poem.

It’s embarrassing.

Wanda calls you out during lunch. “You’re staring at your phone like it owes you tuition money.”

“It’s none of your business,” you reply, stabbing your salad with unnecessary force.

Yelena snorts. “She still hasn’t asked you out, huh?”

“I am not waiting for her to ask me out.”

Kate raises an eyebrow. “Would you say yes?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe you would.

—

The rain starts mid-afternoon.

Hard. Fast. The kind that floods the quad and knocks down your color-coded event posters. Not metaphorical, poetic rain. Actual, annoying, soak-your-socks rain. You’re standing under the broken awning outside the school gym, binder clutched to your chest, watching your hard work dissolve into paper mush.

You’re in the school grounds, fuming, clipboard soaked, when she finds you.

“Event prep not going well?” she asks, casually offering her umbrella.

You don’t take it.

She holds it over both of you anyway.

“I worked so hard on those signs,” you mutter. “And now they’re dead. Murdered. By the sky.”

Natasha looks at the puddles like she can beat them up for you. “Wanna make new ones?”

You blink at her. “Why would you help me?”

She shrugs. “Because I like you.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You what?”

“I like helping you,” she clarifies, emphasis deliberate. “You’re cute when you’re stressed.”

You sputter. She smirks.

“Also, I brought snacks,” she adds, pulling a plastic bag out of her varsity jacket. “Thought you might forget lunch again.”

You hate how well she knows you. You hate how that makes your heart do a thing.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

She hands you a rice ball. “So, what’s the plan, boss?”

You look up at her. Rain falling, your shoes soaked, everything a mess—and suddenly it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Plan is… save the event. Rewrite everything. Get glitter glue. Hope for divine intervention.”

Natasha grins. “Finally. A mission worthy of my talents.”

—

That night, you work together again. Just like before.

But it’s not just like before.

Now there’s this thing between you. A current, a tension, an almost.

She sits closer. Laughs more easily. Steals your pen, your snacks, your attention.

You tell her to focus.

She tells you to loosen up.

And at one point—when your hand accidentally brushes hers and you both freeze for half a second too long—you think: this might actually be something.

—

By Friday, everyone notices.

Wanda keeps sending you suspicious side-eyes. Yelena openly teases Natasha in front of you. Even the teachers are acting weird, like they’re expecting a plot twist.

You try to ignore it.

But it’s hard when Natasha keeps finding excuses to be near you.

“Forgot my book. Oh look, we have the same one.”

“Need help carrying that? You clearly skipped arm day.”

“You busy later? I found this new café. They have your favorite coffee.”

It’s maddening. It’s sweet. It’s maddeningly sweet.

You are losing your mind.

—

Then comes the night before the event.

You’re in the auditorium, double-checking lights and stage cues. Natasha shows up, of course. She’s holding a flashlight in her mouth and balancing a roll of tape on her head.

“You’re not on the logistics team,” you tell her.

She drops the tape. “Nope. Just here for moral support. And also to see your cute boss voice again.”

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“You’re annoying,” you say.

“I know.”

A pause.

“You’re… kind of important to me,” you say suddenly. Quiet. Unexpected even to yourself.

Natasha looks up. Serious now. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Just… thought you should know.”

She crosses the stage, stops in front of you, eyes soft in the dim lighting.

“You’re important to me too,” she says. “And not just for school projects.”

Your heart flips. Or malfunctions. Or possibly explodes.

She leans in. You panic.

You shove a clipboard between you. “I-I still have to check the mic system!”

Natasha blinks. Then laughs. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Pres."

—

Later that night:

—

And then, the day of the event arrives.

Everything runs perfectly.

The crowd cheers. The booths look amazing. Your team is killing it.

And in the middle of it all—between speeches, music, and chaos—you feel her watching you.

She’s not trying to hide it.

You glance at her.

She grins.

You grin back.

—

The event ends with a bang. A literal bang.

Someone in the STEM booth miscalculates the chemical reaction for their demo volcano. You hear the fizz, you smell the vinegar, and then—

Boom.

Foam everywhere. It explodes so violently it hits half the hallway. Your shoes are soaked. Your socks are crying. Your bangs are sticking to your forehead. And right next to you, Natasha Romanoff looks like she just walked out of a shampoo commercial—except her face is covered in pink foam, and she’s wheezing.

“You’re laughing?! This is your fault—”

“How is it my fault that the Science Club can’t count?!”

“You egged them on!”

“I told them to go big or go home!” she says, wiping foam from her jaw. “They just… went nuclear.”

You glare. She grins. And then she reaches out—

Flick.

Right on the center of your forehead.

“Relax, Miss President. You look like a very angry bubble tea.”

“I swear, Romanoff—”

She brushes foam from your nose. “Still the cutest bubble tea on campus, though.”

You stare at her.

You forget how to speak.

You nearly combust on the spot.

—

Later that night, the chaos finally dies down. You’re still buzzing from the noise, the laughter, the adrenaline of pulling off an entire school event without anyone setting the curtains on fire (the foam doesn't count, okay). You sneak off behind the gym—because it’s quiet there, and because you know she’ll follow.

She does.

Varsity jacket slung over her shoulder. Tired eyes. Twisted smirk. That lazy, confident swagger like she didn’t just help you keep the student body from collapsing into absolute anarchy.

“Hey,” she says softly.

You look up from your clipboard. “You survived the foam-pocalypse.”

“Barely.”

She walks over, sees you shiver, and wordlessly drops her jacket onto your shoulders.

You go still.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She leans against the wall beside you. You're seated on the bench, curled under her jacket like a burrito. She watches you. Quiet. Soft.

“You did good today, Pres.”

You glance at her. “I had help.”

She shrugs. “I just followed orders.”

You roll your eyes. “You literally yelled at a sophomore to stop lighting incense indoors.”

“He was summoning good vibes.”

“He was summoning a fire hazard.”

She laughs. You bite your lip to hide your smile.

“…Can I tell you something?” she asks, voice suddenly quieter.

You nod slowly.

She shifts. Leans down slightly, just enough that you can see the way her eyes flicker nervously before she brushes your hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your cheek.

“I like you,” she says. “Not just for school. Not just for events. I like you, Y/N. Like, like-like you.”

Your heart stops. Your entire body goes still.

You stare.

Then—“Took you long enough.”

Natasha blinks. “Wait—what?”

You laugh—light and breathless. “You think I didn’t notice the forehead flicks? The snacks? The weirdly specific coffee orders? The way you walk me home and then pretend it’s not a big deal?”

Natasha looks faintly betrayed. “I was being subtle!”

“You’re literally six-foot-two and smirk at me like a YA love interest. Nothing about you is subtle.”

She gasps. “Are you comparing me to a Wattpad boy?”

“I shouldn’t, but yes.”

Natasha groans into her hands. “This is the worst confession ever—”

You reach up, grab her hands, and pull them down gently.

“I like you too, Delinquent.”

She goes silent.

Then she flicks your forehead again. “I knew it.”

“Ow?!”

“Deserved.”

You grab her collar before she can pull back and lean your forehead against hers, still giggling.

“You’re infuriating.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

You kiss her cheek. She actually short-circuits.

—

—

You barely sleep that night.

Too giddy. Too electrified. Too busy replaying every second of her smile, her laugh, the way she short-circuited when you kissed her cheek.

The group chat keeps blowing up—Wanda’s in full meltdown mode, Yelena’s already planning the wedding, and you… you’re floating.

But the world doesn’t stop just because your crush finally confessed.

The next day arrives fast. Loud. Demanding.

And before you know it—

The interschool basketball match begins.

You shouldn’t even be in the gym.

You’ve got student council paperwork spilling out of your arms, a working list of urgent tasks highlighted in pastel chaos, and three missed calls from your VP asking where the sign-up forms are. Your planner is a warzone, your phone is blowing up, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast.

But you’re here.

Sitting beside Wanda, Yelena, and Kate in the front row of bleachers, legs crossed, hands clenched in your lap, trying very hard not to watch the court.

You tell yourself it’s just for school spirit. You're here to support the school. Support the team.

It’s not about her.

It’s never about her.

Except it’s absolutely about her.

Because Natasha Romanoff is on the court, and for the first time ever, she’s… off.

Her passes are sloppy. She misses two layups in a row. Her defense is late. Her rhythm? Gone. There’s a visible crack in her composure—she’s snapping at teammates, cursing under her breath, yanking at the hem of her jersey like she can pull herself together through sheer will.

“She’s spiraling,” Kate says quietly.

Yelena’s brows furrow. “She doesn’t play like this. Ever.”

“She looks—nervous?” Wanda says, watching closely. “She keeps glancing at the bleachers.”

You force yourself not to move.

Not to flinch.

Not to let the burn in your chest show.

Because she is glancing. Over and over again. Her eyes are scanning the stands, sharp and desperate, like she's looking for something—or someone—and not finding them. Each time she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, her face hardens. Her jaw tightens.

“She’s looking for you,” Yelena murmurs, like she’s just realized.

You press your lips into a thin line.

“She thought you wouldn’t come,” Wanda whispers.

And for a moment, you almost don’t.

But then—

Then she misses another shot. The crowd groans. She slaps her hands against her thighs, furious.

And suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

“God,” you mutter, already standing, “if I get suspended for this—”

You cup your hands around your mouth and yell across the court before your brain can catch up.

“ROMANOFF! PLAY LIKE YOU MEAN IT!”

The whole gym stops.

Like, actually stops.

Every head turns. The air shifts. Even the referee pauses.

And Natasha?

She freezes.

Her eyes snap to you instantly—like she’d been waiting for that voice all game.

And when she finds you?

Her whole expression changes. Like she can breathe again.

The corner of her mouth twitches. A breathless laugh escapes her. Her shoulders roll back. Then—

She moves.

Sharp. Precise. Lethal.

The Natasha everyone knows is back.

She steals the ball from the opposing point guard like it’s nothing, darts down the court, and scores with a clean, perfect shot that wipes out the tension from the past ten minutes.

From that moment on, the game shifts. Momentum tilts.

Natasha becomes unstoppable.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the final buzzer sounds—Natasha’s team winning by two points. The crowd explodes into cheers.

You clap automatically. Just once. Then grab your things, ready to disappear before anyone processes what just happened—

But she doesn’t go to her team.

She doesn’t wait for the trophy, or the coach’s speech, or the photos.

She runs.

Straight. To. You.

Through her teammates, through the crowd, ignoring her coach yelling her name and the players trying to high-five her.

You blink as she stops in front of you—sweaty, panting, eyes burning with something so raw it makes your chest ache.

“Hi,” she breathes, like the world’s been holding its breath without you.

You stare. “Hi?”

“You came,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I thought—” she shakes her head, words failing. “You weren’t there. I looked and you weren’t—”

“I was late,” you admit softly. “I had council stuff—”

“I thought I ruined everything,” she whispers.

You frown. “Romanoff—”

“I couldn’t see you,” she continues, like it’s been sitting in her throat the whole game. “I kept looking and you weren’t—God, I thought I lost you.”

You blink fast, something thick in your throat. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

And then—

“Can I kiss you?” she asks, not a tease this time. Just desperate. Just honest. “I—I need to know this is real.”

Your heart is pounding.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You can.”

She kisses you.

Right there. In the middle of the gym. In front of literally everyone.

It’s messy. Breathless. Charged with too much feeling and not enough time. Her hands slide into your hair, holding on like she’s still scared you’ll vanish.

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Wanda screams. Kate chokes. Yelena straight-up punches the air.

And when Natasha finally pulls back, she leans her forehead against yours and breathes, “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?” you ask, dazed.

“Disappear,” she says. “Make me play like a rookie. Make me lose my mind.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were that bad?”

She scoffs. “I nearly fouled out looking for you.”

You try to look smug. “Guess you need me around, huh?”

Natasha leans in, brushing her nose against yours.

“Guess I do, President.”

The crowd is still roaring. Someone’s taking photos. The coach is yelling in the distance.

But all you feel is her.

And for the first time in weeks, everything finally makes sense again.

You sigh, dramatic and hopeless. “I’m so doomed.”

She kisses you again, softer this time.

“Yeah,” she murmurs against your lips. “But at least now you’re doomed with me.”

—

The next morning, Natasha walks up to you in the middle of the hallway.

She’s in her varsity jacket.

You’re in her hoodie from last night.

Everyone sees.

She stops in front of you. Smirks.

You squint. “Why do you look like you’re about to say something embarrassing?”

“Because I am.” She flicks your forehead again. “Hi, baby.”

Your entire soul leaves your body.

Wanda SCREAMS from across the hallway.

Yelena fist-pumps.

Natasha leans in, lips near your ear.

“Now everyone knows you’re mine, Pres.”

You elbow her. Lightly.

She catches your hand.

Doesn’t let go.

Then threads her fingers through yours like it’s always been that easy.

And maybe it is.

Because from the way your heart leaps, the way her thumb brushes yours—

You realize you’ve been hers all along.